


Fled Is That Music

by Violsva



Series: Arte Regendus [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A Scandal in Bohemia, Angst, Arguing About It, Break Up, M/M, Pretentious Classical References, Recreational Drug Use, Slash, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson’s long, weary process of realization, when Holmes is lost to visions and waking dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fled Is That Music

In the autumn of 1887, Sherlock Holmes’ practice faced something of a drought. The early part of the year had furnished him with much work, but it trailed off very sharply in August. Apart from a few enquiries by mail, he had only, I believe, two cases in the entire month of September, both of them requiring little intense investigation and one a complete failure. He was pleased, therefore, to be summoned by Lord St. Simon in the matter of the latter’s marriage, though he rather objected to the peer’s tone. His annoyance at the dearth of work continued, however, and he was less tactful with Inspector Lestrade than he might have been. Holmes’ mood is always very directed correlated with the amount of work he has available.

We had little to do after the St. Simon case. In the long October evenings Holmes might play his violin, or work at some chemical experiment, or simply lie on the settee in a state of utter _ennui_ , or we might stave off dullness together. But more often these days he had his own source of stimulation, bought at a chemist’s and then measured and dissolved at his workbench, and I was forced to choose between fruitlessly arguing with him or leaving him to it and trying to appear normal at my club.

I had spoken to him on the subject as a friend, as a doctor, and as a colleague, without results; my attempts to plead with him as a lover had been utterly rebuffed. There was nothing more that I could say on the subject, yet I could not sit calmly in the same room as he injected himself with cocaine, for a mere hour’s enjoyment with no medical concern whatsoever. I felt overwhelmed by my own helplessness if I tried. Having tried persuasion, there was no other alley left to me. If I disposed of the cocaine he would merely buy more, and I would have placed myself in an indefensible position. And so I had tolerated it, despite my wishes, for three years now since my discovery of his use.

I had so little influence over him. In his bleak moods, I could only rarely draw him into a brighter state of mind, and he often thrust away any attempts I made. He was not in the full throes of one yet, and I searched for some occupation for him to stave one off. I had little hope of success. Furthermore, I admit that, due to the amount of pain I was in from my wounds that autumn, I was not at my best.

But this evening, at least, having spent the morning in an apparently causeless silent fury, Holmes had now chosen the violin. He was alternating between long drawn out wails and pizzicato. It was not especially pleasant to listen to, but he rarely played while intoxicated, so I had decided to count my blessings and put up with the irksome effects of his sobriety. I took advantage of his occupation to use the time to write.

One gets used to being told, “Leave me alone, be quiet, I need to think,” surprisingly quickly, and I did not normally resent it if he had a case. But to have such commands interrupt one’s writing is tiresome, as there are few more silent activities in which a man can engage. However, Holmes in one of his queer fits objects even to rustling paper and scratching pens, and he will not allow that the subject of such writings should make him more kindly inclined towards them.

Tonight, admittedly, my activity would more properly be called ‘attempting to write’ than writing. I looked at the draft of my story. _A Tangled Skein_ , it was called, and there was something wrong with it. I had sent it to an editor, and he had liked it but told me it needed more colour. I’d no idea of how to add that – whatever Holmes had said of it, it reflected the facts. What more could I do?

I was happy, therefore, to be interrupted from my contemplation of blank pages by a ring at the bell. Holmes jerked his head up as well, finished his playing with a flourish, and had violin and bow neatly back in their case by the time our visitor had mounted the stairs.

The door to our sitting room was opened to admit what seemed for a moment to be a walking fashion plate. She was quite attractive, and her clothes, even I could tell, were very well chosen, although her bustle might have appeared unaltered in a satirical cartoon in _Punch_. But her curled fringe did not hide that her brow was lined with concern, and her gloved hands clutched each other and twisted with worry.

“Mr Holmes,” she said, glancing between us and focusing on my companion. “I am Mrs. Richard Overlea, and I must consult you.”

Holmes took her in with a long, considering look. “Then of course,” he said, “you must sit down, and tell me about it. It is to do with your husband, I see.” Mrs. Overlea jumped. “You have been fingering your wedding ring since you entered,” said Holmes. “What is your concern?”

“It’s his work,” said Mrs. Overlea, leaning forward. “You see, he is an undersecretary in a government department – Foreign Affairs. He has always been very dedicated to his work, and I’m proud of him for it, truly I am. He has done some important work, I’m sure, on treaties and bills and things. And he has stayed late, before, and been preoccupied by it. But for the last two weeks, Mr Holmes, I have hardly seen him at all. He comes in late at night, looking dreadfully weary, and won’t speak to me. I don’t pry about his work, you understand, but he won’t speak at _all_. He is out six days a week at least, and so pale – and I think he is having nightmares. It seems too much to be only his work, but there is nothing else that I know it could be – but I am so concerned for him.”

She paused for effect. Holmes twitched an eyebrow and waited silently for her to continue.

“Have you got any information from him at all as to the cause?” I asked.

“I have asked him, and he has only said that it is a confidential matter and he can’t speak of it. He has told me not to worry about him, but I don’t think he realizes how affected I am by it.” She looked beseechingly across at Holmes. “After all, as Byron says, ‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart. ’Tis woman’s whole existence.’”

“Indeed?” said Holmes, a man who couldn’t tell Byron from Browning if his life depended on it. “Pray continue. With specifics, if possible.”

I am afraid I recall few details of her narrative, due to the drama of its sequel. But she spoke of her husband freely and lovingly, and my heart went out to her in her confusion. She was perhaps too disregarding of her husband’s privacy, but a woman who knows she is not being told the truth by someone so close to her will naturally feel slighted. And she was so determined not to believe any ill of the man.

“But when I said that I did not _know_ it was his work, I did not mean that I did not have, well, evidence. For I have seen doctor’s bills on his desk, Mr Holmes,” she continued, leaning forward in her anxiety. “I looked not further, and perhaps I should not have glanced at his desk at all, but I see so little of him – he might be ill, deathly ill, and I would not know it. But then, surely, he would not be working so late. And I should hope,” she said, with a certain woundedness, “that he would come to me for comfort, even if he does not wish me to be alarmed -”

“He is not ill,” said Holmes. “The doctor’s bills are for his illegitimate child, whom he is visiting in the evenings. That is what is worrying him.”

Mrs. Overlea gasped and stared at him. I was glaring as well, though I knew it would do no good.

“He will admit it if you ask,” said Holmes.

“But he – he cannot have – it is impossible.”

“It is the truth. The child’s birth was likely before your marriage, so on that account he has not betrayed you. Have you any other questions?”

She stared at him in horror. I realized that condolence, if possible, was up to me.

“I am dreadfully sorry,” I said, rising. “Come, Mrs. Overlea. I think you would be better for some air.” I offered her my hand, and she jumped to her feet herself.

“I won’t stay here one instant more,” she snapped, though she was shaking slightly. “Thank you, I’ll see myself out.” She slammed our sitting room door behind her, and I heard the bang as she treated the front door similarly.

“Holmes,” I said through clenched teeth, “what in God’s name were you thinking?”

He raised his eyebrows at me. “I detest self-delusion,” he said. “It is the truth, and there’s nothing of interest for me to investigate in the matter.”

I struggled for words for a moment, but could not think of anything to say. At last I grabbed my hat and overcoat and left.

It was helpful, being so close to Regent’s Park. I paced through it for at least an hour, my thoughts on Holmes’ rudeness rather than the dark scenery.

What was worst was that it was not unprecedented. As Holmes’ popularity had grown, he had changed from a last court of appeal to a sought-after consultant for those with money to spare. With this had come cases which he solved quickly and found dull, and which invariably turned his mood to the worse.

His quick dismissal of such affairs was not necessarily a sign that he had taken cocaine, but it was almost certainly an indication that he would soon. If I had stayed, I might have prevented it, but the odds were not in my favour. I kept walking until my leg protested in earnest.

When I returned home, he was not in the sitting room. His desk drawer was open, and his morocco leather case was on the desk. I considered turning around and continuing upstairs to my bedroom, but I steeled myself and entered his.

He sat on the far side of the bed in his shirtsleeves, his dressing gown discarded. The morocco case might have been on the desk, but he still held his syringe. He looked up at my entrance, the light behind him.

“Again,” I said. “For God’s sake.”

“I thought it useful, after this evening,” he said. “I am rather calmer, now. You might prefer my company. I certainly do.”

“You know damned well I won’t,” I said. I took a deep breath and reined in my temper. I had had much practice at the discipline, recently. Holmes twisted his lips a little and I turned to go.

“Watson,” he said. I turned again to find him looking a little surprised, as if for once he had spoken without thinking. “Do stay,” he continued. “I am better now. I know I was unkind, but I admit she irritated me.”

“Have you listened to a word I’ve said, ever?” I sat down on the bed. “I want you, Holmes, not the drugs.”

Months earlier, I might have referred to the effect on his health. But I had lectured him so thoroughly on that subject that I knew by now it would do no good. If I wanted to I would be able to have the entire argument, both sides word for word, in my head. There was no point in trying that tactic again.

“And yet you don’t,” said Holmes. “You may not like that I alter my mind, but you dislike its natural state as well.”

“But Holmes,” I said, “that wasn’t like you, tonight. You are not normally cruel.”

“Cruel?” His eyebrows were sardonic. “It was not more cruel to reveal the truth at once than to let her go on worrying over nothing and her husband continue desperately keeping her in ignorance.”

“You’ve no idea what may have happened between them because of you.”

“Watson, must we? I can only find the truth, not tell people what to do with it.”

“You can also have some consideration for them when telling them of it.”

He ignored my words and continued his thought. “And with petty little affairs like that, I’ve really no wish to know anything further about them.”

I stood. “If you want to have a conversation with the bedpost, I’m sure you don’t require my presence.” 

“I don’t want a conversation on the matter at all, Watson,” said Holmes. “Mrs. Overlea chose to involve me in her affairs by coming here. I’m quite finished with her. Come back.”

It was not a plea, but a command. I was at the door already; he took my arm and turned me around. “Watson,” he said, “I know you hate it. I do it to drive them away, yes, not because of any flaw in them but because I want to be alone with you and my thoughts.”

“And yet you show so little appreciation for my sole company when you have it.” It was rather bitter, but I had had an extremely trying day.

His hands moved to my shoulders. His eyes were wide and his pupils dilated. “I intend to show it now. Come to bed, John.”

I sighed. I had managed to avoid this at such times before now, by staying away from him or pretending to be oblivious to his hints. But now I would have to be direct.

“Not when you’re like this,” I said.

“I want you more like this,” he told me, his hands reaching for my tie.

“While I,” I said, stepping to the side, “want you not at all. Good night, Holmes.”

I closed the door rather forcefully behind myself and went up to my own room. I knew that after that he would not follow me. But I doubted it would do any good in the future.

The only light in my small dim room was the candle I had brought. I undressed, washed quickly, and pulled on my nightshirt and sat on my bed. It was only a little smaller than Holmes’, but we did not often share it, nor did I often sleep there alone. His window faced a wall and his room was directly off the sitting room, convenient when we were wild for each other.

I closed my eyes at the thought of Holmes’ proposition. We were no less ardent after more than five years, but now I wondered how often I had failed to notice that his desire stemmed from the needle rather than his feelings for me. When I had seen the drug in him I had always pulled away, but I did not know if I had always seen what was there.

There was no good to come of such speculations. I picked up a novel and attempted to concentrate on it, but the success of that attempt may be judged by the fact that I’ve no idea which book it was, or who by.

After occupying myself with determined reading for perhaps an hour, I put out the light. And then, of course, I lay sleepless for hours, though I should have been exhausted. I was too used to sharing a bed.

A couple weeks after our first intimacies, there had been an unseasonable storm and my shoulder had stiffened until I could barely move my arm. I had spent the day largely silent and irritable, confined to our apartment.

Several hours after I had retired early to my bed, I had been awoken by Holmes climbing in beside me.

“Holmes,” I had said, “I can’t. Not tonight.”

“I want nothing from you, John,” he had replied, and then he stretched his lean body next to mine and I fell back to sleep from exhaustion.

When I awoke the next morning, his arm had fallen across my chest and one of his long muscular legs lay between mine. I discovered later that my shoulder was vastly improved. Since then we had slept together as often as we might without raising suspicions.

No one who knows him would think it, but in the middle of the night Sherlock Holmes is remarkably affectionate, curling close and wrapping his body around mine. I miss him terribly when he is not with me, though I had had to grow accustomed to it occasionally. But that night, I could not sleep.

At last I rose, donned my dressing gown, and went down to our sitting room, thinking vaguely of brandy.

Holmes was still awake. He was sitting on the settee, smoking, the lamp turned low to cast him in shadow. He was so handsome, and so very much _himself_ , that I caught my breath. He smiled and gestured at me to come closer. I sat beside him, looking closely at him and seeing no sign that he was still intoxicated, and he switched his pipe to his left hand to place an arm casually around my shoulders.

“I am,” he said presently, “a damnably impatient fellow, and as you know I have been starved of stimulation for some time. You know all my flaws, my dear Watson, but I should not assume that you are therefore required to tolerate them.”

I leaned against his arm and said nothing for a moment. “It’s not your flaws,” I said eventually. “It’s not your personality, Holmes, you must know that. It’s your vices.”

“The one leads to the other.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” I sighed, not knowing how to refute what seemed so obviously wrong to me, and what he so clearly believed.

He did not reply. Eventually he stood, and we passed together to his room, where I did at last sleep.

He complained less of boredom for the next few days. He was courteous to me, and we even ventured together outside of Baker Street, though the weather was barely improved. But he had not stopped taking the cocaine.

It was never large doses, never enough to put him into the state he had been that night, but all too often he was not quite himself in our conversations. But it was never enough that I felt I could object, not when he already knew my feelings on the matter.

I knew I was building up a grievance in my mind, but on this of all matters I was justified. I was so very tired of scrutinizing Holmes’ behaviour, his pupils, his words and mannerisms for any sign of the drug. I wanted to know, with no pause for hesitation, that I was with Holmes himself and not a well done imitation. I began to wonder if I would ever be certain of that again.

And so I was short-tempered and snappish, and Holmes in response injected more frequently, and I grew still more sharp with him. I don’t know if he was trying to refrain from snapping back at me by taking the cocaine or trying not to feel hurt by my words – for however it may seem, I do know that Holmes can be hurt, and hurt terribly.

It was both my fault that he was using more and certainly not my fault. Whether I blamed myself or him more depended upon the day.

It is amazing, the ability of the mind to fool itself. In three weeks, I had spoken to three fellow doctors about practices they knew of, and done some research of my own, before I truly realized what I was thinking.

I had never vowed myself to Holmes, but still I could hardly consciously think of leaving him, whatever plans I made. And as a doctor -

“I don’t need a doctor, Watson,” he had said, countless times. _He_ certainly did not care about my duty.

What had happened, that staying with him had become a duty?

And yet he swore he did not need me, had never given any spoken indication that I was anything but a friend...

I had always known it was merely his reserve.

I had known, once, that he expressed his feelings for me through his touch, his little gestures, his small considerations. I had known it very well. That had been enough for me, once.

I could not say that I knew it now. How could I, when though he touched me as much as before, though he did all that he had used to do, yet in the greater things, the centre of our lives, he showed so clearly so little consideration for his own health, when he knew that I could not bear to see him destroy himself?

I could not believe what I had thought I knew.

Having come to this realization, I was even less tolerant of Holmes’ drug. I was so sick of second-guessing his behaviour. I began spending hours away from the flat – a plan which backfired, for without my distracting or disapproving presence he used more. I came home to him either clearly not himself, or else lying on the sofa, looking tired as death.

On one of the latter occasions, I sat down on the end of the settee and lifted his head into my lap. “Is there nothing that will help?”

“You know what will help.”

“Oh, Holmes.” That seemed to be all I could ever say, now.

We remained in sympathetic silence for nearly an hour, but such silences were becoming rare now.

Only two days later I arrived from my club to find him almost giddy. He turned at my entrance with a stumbling flourish, righted himself, and asked me if he had ever told me of the mystery of the Polish spinster. It was a horrific parody of his usual exuberance after a case.

“No,” I said, “and I’m damned if you’ll tell me today either. This must stop, Holmes.”

“There are no ill effects, Watson,” he said. “None besides your haranguing me, that is. You know I need it, you know it helps, and you should concern yourself with it no further.”

“It does not! You do not need it! There is nothing wrong with you, and cocaine cannot fix it!” It was a rather self-contradictory statement, but I was past worrying over that.

“You are arguing based on a position of absolute ignorance, Watson. The problem is not with my mind, but with the world, and so long as sufficient stimulation is not provided to me I must – _must_ , Watson, find it myself.”

“You give up on the world far too quickly.”

“Oh? I thought there was nothing wrong with me. You have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Explain it to me, then!”

“You have your own cravings for adventure,” said Holmes. “But life cannot continually provide that, even life with me. Therefore, you turn to fiction for it. I need not adventure but _any_ mental stimulation, not merely to add spice to life but to continue existing in any meaningful sense at all. It is, perhaps, the difference between Plato’s rational and spirited souls. Not being provided with brainwork, I turn to cocaine. That is all it is for, and that is necessary.”

A man who wishes to spend time with Sherlock Holmes must learn to ignore insults, veiled or otherwise. I was generally adept at it, though at the moment my tolerance was rather strained. I returned to my point.

“Find some solution that does not ruin your health, then.”

“You think I have not tried?”

“Yes, I do! It is very clear that you do not care what it does to your health.”

“I believe I have mentioned before that I find its effect on my mind immeasurably valuable even assuming it will have some slight effect on my health.”

“Some slight effect!” I said. “Do you care nothing for yourself? You are not just a brain, Holmes!”

“And what does it matter to you?”

“How can it not matter to me?”

Holmes merely raised his eyebrows.

The words were right there, ready to be spoken. _How would_ you _feel if_ I _died, Holmes?_

I couldn’t. I looked at the man stretched out on the sofa, staring at me with faint disdain, and I couldn’t ask that, couldn’t hear what I knew by then I would hear. So I turned around and walked into our – his – bedroom.

I could take out all of the possessions I kept there in one trip. Holmes’ eyes were closed when I passed him, which of course did not mean that he did not know what I was doing.

I had hoped that he would understand what I meant by it, since telling him directly had done no good. But he continued as he had been, as if our relations had been entirely incidental.

Or as if he was trying to wait me out, without modifying his behaviour in any way. It was not a charitable thing to think of him, but God knows he barely deserved the benefit of the doubt at that time. I don’t know if I believed it, precisely, but once it had occurred to me I could not stop seeing it – the way he ignored my wishes, my interests, my spoken requests, in the assumption that I would always return.

But this was Holmes. He could not be assuming that. He must know, surely, from one of a dozen tiny signs I couldn’t begin to notice, that I had been looking for a practice. But if he did, he hadn’t said anything.

Surely, though, it would be easier for him to ruin himself without my continued interference. If he was deliberately driving me away, he couldn’t have chosen a better way to do it.

But he was _still_ finding us cabs, and pouring me brandy without being asked when my leg was paining me, and before I had left his bed he had wrapped himself around me at night just as he had used to. He had not stopped with his little concerned or supportive gestures. I had thought of them as loving gestures, once. It was only that now he was also snide and callous and generally afflicted by cocaine.

I continued in my confusion for days, but I also talked to a middle aged doctor suffering from a chorea and wishing to sell his practice. And about a week after I had removed my belongings from Holmes’ room, I bought it. For although I still was not sure what Holmes felt for me, I was beginning to think that it did not matter.

When I had signed all the papers and concluded the matter, I went home and arrived in time for supper. Holmes was eating tonight, though I had little appetite. He glanced at me across the table frequently, and at last said, frowning, “I believe that you have something to tell me?”

He _did_ know, then, and felt nothing. “I am purchasing a practice,” I said. Once I had managed the first sentence, it was too easy. “It’s near Paddington Station. I shall be living above it. I take residence next month.”

“You are -” Holmes froze, his mouth open. “You can’t.”

“I must,” I said. “I can’t stand this, Holmes, I cannot – I’ve told you before, and you’ve done nothing to change.”

“You -” He was ashen. “Watson.”

“You know it’s true, Holmes,” I said. My anxiety was beginning to drown in fury.

“I need you,” he said. His voice shook, but his shock, if that was truly what it was, had seemingly gone the same way as my apprehension. But if he meant what he said – if he was actually saying it – I might – “Damn it, Watson,” he continued, “I know it has been slow of late, but you’re essential to my work!”

“To your _work_ ,” I said, sorely disappointed. “I’m not fucking your _work_ , Holmes.” He stared at me as if I had slapped him – fitting, as I felt rather the same. “I am here for you,” I said. “I have always been here for you. And you are destroying yourself, and I can’t watch it anymore.” I started to say something else, I don’t know what, and then I shook my head and went upstairs.

The practice would have sat empty for weeks, Dr. Farquhar having already taken himself off to his country retirement, but I took it over early. I lived at Baker Street still, but spending long hours at my office I scarcely saw Holmes. I have no doubt that he arranged matters this way.

Mrs. Hudson congratulated me on my returning to practice, and insisted on my visiting her for tea in future, and pressed a cake into my hands as I at last left, but she continually looked at the stairs. Holmes had not made his appearance yet that morning. I had expected that, and ensured that I at least saw him the night before. He had deigned to say goodbye, very formally.

Winter is a good time for a doctor to buy an old practice. By the spring, all your predecessor’s patients will be used to having to come to you with their headcolds and ’flues, and so they will continue into the new year. I was not kept as busy as I would have liked, certainly not busy enough to keep my mind off Holmes, but I managed to make a living, at least.

The first few weeks, however, went very slowly, as I split my time between the practice and Baker Street, and in a desperate search for occupation I turned again to my manuscript.

I read over the last few chapters for the hundredth time. Writing had been impossible for weeks now, and besides I had not been able to think of anything to do with it. I had researched Mormons, thinking of writing the romantic history. It was rather tangential to the main story. But I felt as if, perhaps, I could write it now. I started with the salt plains, and when next I looked up the windows were black, and I had had no patients all day.

It took me little more than a week. I doubted it was particularly accurate, and it was certainly rather florid, but I liked it. It was my own addition to the thing, and it put a woman into the story, breaking the endless progression of police officers. It was a bit of variety, I told myself, firmly not thinking of what Holmes would say about the entire endeavour. I read it over twice more, copied it out properly, and sent it to my editor.

The book was published in a Christmas edition of the magazine, so I had something to think about other than my lack of company. That sounds rather more dreary than I felt at the time. I was thrilled by the publication, and it served quite well to get me through conversations with friends who had spent the holiday with their families. I was certainly happier than I ever had been seeing my brother for Christmas, though I felt terribly guilty thinking it even a few years after his death. Holmes and I had never paid more attention to the holiday than that required to enjoy a roast fowl, so at least I was not worried by thoughts of him, or not any more than I usually was.

I heard accounts of him, and was pleased to know that he was occupying himself with crime. He was in the papers quite often now, and was well known enough to be called upon by monarchs occasionally. I sent him congratulations whenever I heard of any of his cases going well. He sent me congratulations on the publication of my novel.

At least, the telegram was signed by him and I had no reason to believe it was false. But it was a pallid, characterless note, with no hint of his personality or opinions behind it.

But I knew, if I had seen nothing of him in the papers, that there were other ways he occupied himself. I sometimes had tea with Mrs. Hudson, and saw him – or listened to her worry over him – then. He and I would talk pleasantly enough in front of her, with only the occasional stiff pause or snide remark. I admit that he was not the only snide one.

But one night in March I was walking back from a patient’s house when I realized that I had turned into Baker Street without even realizing it, and was only a few steps from number 221. I looked up. The windows were brightly lit up, and he was pacing. His head was sunk upon his chest and his hands were clasped behind him. He was at work again, then. He had some new problem, not – anything else. I rang the bell, and asked Mrs. Hudson to show me up to the – our – the sitting room.

He glanced over as I entered, tilted his head slightly, and then waved at an armchair. He tossed me his case of cigars and flicked his hand at the spirit case, and then looked me over.

“No doubt,” he said, “you saw the light while returning home from your patient. You do know my every mood and habit, Watson. You are quite right. I think you may be interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of thick, pink tinted note paper which had been lying open upon the table, and so I was introduced to the first case I helped him with after leaving Baker Street.

After the conclusion of the case I took my leave of Holmes, having patients to attend to, but to my surprise he invited me for dinner that evening. I accepted readily.

That evening, we carried on a sparkling conservation over impersonal subjects, as we had often before. I ended up staying for supper, and we talked about Louis Pasteur’s _bacteria_ as if it was perfectly normal dinner conversation, smiling at each other and speculating wildly over medicine – medicine not being Holmes’ speciality, he feels he has a license to speculate. Holmes was at his best that evening, brilliant and charming, and for once I felt like I kept up. It felt like I had never left.

After, we retired to our armchairs by the fire with brandies. I saw that Holmes had placed Miss Adler’s photograph on the mantelpiece. He noticed my glance at it and frowned at it from his armchair. “I cannot work it out, Watson,” he said.

“How she outsmarted you?” I asked. I admit I had been rather amused as I watched Holmes’ face as he read her letter.

“Not that. But such a brilliant woman, and yet she chooses to marry, so far as I can tell, a perfectly ordinary man, and give up any chance of wider fame. I do not understand it.”

“What is she giving up?” I asked. “If she consulted with him on the matter, he must know of her past, and knowing that he would not marry her if he did not love her.”

“And what has his love to do with the fact that a woman’s marriage results in her near-complete removal from public life?”

“It means he may not insist on that from her. It means that if she is going to it willingly, she may think it worthwhile. Marriage need not mean one partner is subsumed by the other’s will, and when it does then it ruins them both. She was self-sufficient beforehand – she would not enter into a marriage if she did not wish to.”

“I cannot think why any woman of sense would wish to,” said Holmes.

I sighed and shook my head. “If you think of a marriage as fundamentally unequal, of course you can’t.”

“But legally, it is,” said Holmes. “And someone who voluntarily enters into an arrangement with so little benefit for them – I would say that only a fool would do it, and yet Miss Adler _has_.”

“Can you truly see no benefits at all, no reason why a woman would prefer marriage to being a rich man’s mistress?” I said. “Sometimes I think you’re positively inhuman.”

“As you like, Watson,” said Holmes, displaying an emotionless countenance quite in accord with my impression. We said little for some time after that, but Holmes offered me a brandy and we slowly found other matters to talk of, and regained some of our camaraderie.

And then the clock struck twelve and I jumped in surprise and said, “I should be getting home.”

There was a long second’s pause.

“As you like, Watson,” he said, rising to his feet with the grace of a dancer. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your bed,” and how he managed to say that with no apparent innuendo in his tone, and yet still make me remember his, I do not know. So he led me to the door, still charming and still graceful and glancing every couple of seconds at the mantelpiece, where there rested a morocco leather case that previously had been kept in a drawer, out of sight.

_It is not your doing_ , I told myself firmly in the cab home. _Not yours, and were he willing to stop for you all would be different._

**Author's Note:**

> “Plato’s rational and spirited souls” – for Plato’s theory of the tripartite soul, see _The Republic_, or Wikipedia.


End file.
